


The One That Got Away

by FyrMaiden



Category: Glee
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 03:27:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7026694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FyrMaiden/pseuds/FyrMaiden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years after they broke up, Blaine Anderson is on the road, searching for the one that got away. He finds him in the most unlikely of places.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One That Got Away

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: A story comprised of the titles of songs covered by Glee. (I cheated a little; there's far more inteconnecting phrasing than the prompt allowed for!)
> 
> Title from the one Katy Perry song I wish Glee had covered _and didn't_. Buttheads, it would have been perfect.

Rachel Berry, a beauty school dropout and pretty young thing, feels as if she is barely breathing. It’s been - some nights, long summer nights, (and 4 minutes) since she and Blaine Anderson, Broadway baby and former teenage dream, had started their roadtrip across America, crisscrossing rivers deep and mountains high, footloose and fancy free. Blaine drives with his arm hanging out of the open window, and Rachel rides shotgun with the roof of the Mustang down, the wind blowing wild in her bouffant hair, eyes protected by her oversized sunglasses. When the sun goes down and the stars come out, she plays with the dials on the radio until she finds a crackling station in the holy night; paradise, she grins at Blaine, by the dashboard lights. Blaine only smiles back at her and hums along to the music spilling into the dark like a wrecking ball.

“I’m glad you came,” he says eventually, and Rachel blinks and turns her head.

“I’ve had the time of my life,” she smiles, “It’s like being alive, as long as you’re there.”

“Here’s to us,” he says, and Rachel looks at him.

The warm summer night wraps itself around them, and Rachel’s voice twines itself with Blaine’s as they sing, the melody like glitter in the air. She says nothing when he switches the radio off abruptly.

“Rumour has it,” she says, “You’re looking for someone like you.”

She’s not surprised when he doesn’t answer. They fall into silence as another town roars towards them, the headlights illuminating the welcome. ‘Nutbush City Limits’. Population now plus two.

*

Santana Lopez buses tables at the Copacabana - her girlfriend’s idea of a joke - in the evenings. It’s a slow night when Rachel Berry - reality TV star - and her boyfriend, or maybe her brother (or maybe both, she doesn’t care to know) walk through the door.

“A change would do you good,” Rachel is saying. “Everybody hurts.”

Blaine signals to Santana, says, “One bourbon, one scotch, one beer,” and takes a seat. Santana pours and then looks at Rachel.

“Red wine,” she says, and Santana asks her for her ID. Sally Eary is 25, from Omaha, NE. Santana doesn’t care enough to challenge it.

“Any preference?”

Rachel shakes her head, and Santana loses incremental respect. Blaine puts his head in his hands and says, “I’m a lovefool.” He knocks back the bourbon. Rachel sips hers wine and pulls a face, and Santana smiles to herself, considers why it is that no one in these situations ever takes the money up front. Still.

“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” Rachel says to Blaine, as Santana busies herself drying glasses just within earshot. It sounds interesting at least. Blaine snorts and sips his Scotch and peels the label slowly from his bottle of Bud.

“It’s too late, Rach,” he says. “I followed rivers, and they brought me here. I know where I’ve been, and now it’s time. This is where he’s from, somewhere only we know.”

Rachel finishes her wine, and presses her lips to Blaine’s hair. Santana thinks, lovers then. She’d have sworn he was gay.  “I’m not gonna teach your boyfriend how to dance with you,” she says softly, and Santana smiles to herself. Maybe he’s just - experimenting. Maybe she really is his sister. It doesn’t matter, she’s made him smile, and his smile lights up the bar. He tips beer into his mouth, and Santana’s brain stutters to a halt, the way his lips look around the neck of the bottle, and she stares down at her hands for a long second. When she looks back up, both of them are leaving.

“Blame it on the alcohol,” Santana mutters as the door slips closed behind them, bills bills bills piled on the bar in front of her.

*

Brittany S. Pierce is a girl on fire. She loves where she lives, loves what she does, and she’s killing it. She meets Rachel Berry downtown, or what passes for downtown anyway. Rachel is wearing short shorts and a wide hat, holding cheap coffee in both of her hands, staring emptily into storefronts as she wanders up and down the sidewalk.

“Hey, soul sister,” Brittany says, and Rachel jumps. Her hair is braided over her shoulders. Brittany thinks she recognises her from - somewhere.

“Hey ya,” she responds, and smiles wide.

Brittany finds herself vaguely tongue-tied, confronted by a pretty girl with the sun in her eyes. She asks her what she’s thinking about, and Rachel’s sigh is deep and longing.

“The glory days,” she says, and then, “I believe in a thing called love. Can you help me?”

She’s looking for a garage, she says. A specific one. “It’s more than a feeling,” she says, “I’m so excited.” She says there’s a boy - man now - who works there. “I need to bring him home,” she says. She doesn’t say who. Brittany doesn’t ask.

Before Rachel leaves, Brittany buys her a rose and gives it to her with a smile. Rachel accepts it easily.

*

Kurt Hummel hears rather than sees the car pull up outside of his dad’s shop. He sees the bright red lace of a pair of Kurt Geiger heels tap into the entrance, and rolls himself out from beneath the car he’s working on as if he’s greased lightning.

“Hello,” he says, and then, “Is that your Mustang-?”

“Sally,” Rachel replies, and holds out her hand. Kurt shakes it and nods his head.

“Sally,” he says, and knows she’s lying. She’s been in the news a lot, ever since she got into that car with Blaine Anderson (gossip columns still can’t decide if he’s her brother or her lover - Kurt knows, though, because he remembers kissing Blaine Anderson mouth and sucking his dick when they were in college together) a thousand years and a thousand miles ago. “What seems to be the problem, Sally?”

She gestures towards the car, bright cherry red in the yard. “Yesterday,” she says, somewhat evasively, “I was just trying to drive my car and suddenly it smelled like it was burning up.”

The wind whistles, and Kurt says, “Why don’t you take a seat. It’s cold outside.”

Rachel plops herself down on the couch, her skirt revealing a lot of thigh. Kurt smiles to himself, and thinks, one day, this will be one helluva story.

For now, it’s just an oil change and the wide smile and beguiling gaze of a woman he knows is travelling with a man he knows.

*

Brittany sees her later outside of a run down motel, wrapped in the embrace of a man who could be her brother.

The rose is in her hair, behind her ear. Brittany doesn’t slow down.

*

Blaine runs into Kurt in the bathroom of the Copacabana. They’ve both changed. Kurt is taller, more angular, beautiful if Blaine’s honest. ‘Who are you now,’ he wonders, just as Kurt’s eyes meet his. Kurt, for his part, blinks and then visibly double-takes.

“Blaine?” he says, and Blaine nods and swallows and lets Kurt drag him into an empty stall, lets him swallow all the memory of the last five years. They don’t talk much, not there, but Kurt says, “I’m homeward bound, how about you give your heart a break?”

They leave separately, Kurt’s address and phone number deep in Blaine’s pocket. “You should go your own way,” Kurt says. “Everybody talks here. I know you have your reasons to hide your love away.”

“I haven’t,” Blaine says. “I’m not.”

Kurt smiles and kisses his cheek. “You may be right,” he whispers, “We’ve got tonight.”

Blaine leaves a note the following morning. ‘Somebody loves you,’ it says. He’s scribbled a heart next to it.

“Promises promises,” Kurt whispers. Even so, he keeps it in a box with the rest of his memories of Blaine, time warped as they are. Maybe this time…

*

“So who is he?” Santana asks as Kurt changes the tires on her truck. He doesn’t answer, but he knows that won’t save him. He looks up to see her with her arms folded beneath her bust. He’ll never ask her if the rumours are true, but he wonders, sometimes, how you tell the difference between silicone boobs and natural ones. He thinks she’d hit him if he did voice the question, and his face is important to him in a town like the one they’re stuck in.

“Just somebody that I used to know,” he says, enigmatically. Santana huffs and rolls her eyes.

“You give love a bad name,” she says, pointedly. Kurt smiles to himself and turns his attention back to the wheel he’s fitting. It must’ve been love to survive the distance it has. Santana leans against her car and stares down at him. “What kind of fool are you anyway?”

Kurt laughs at that, and tightens the last nut on her truck. “Love is a battlefield, Santana,” he says. “Sometimes you have to take care of yourself. Are you paying cash, or on your account?”

“Account,” she says, and then, “You’re full of shit. It’s human nature. Listen to your heart, ese. He’s perfect.”

Kurt stands up and rubs his hands on his thighs, his smile thin and tight. “I was all out of love,” he says, “And he was chasing pavements. We were - we were caught in a bad romance.” Santana rolls her eyes.

“So you end up here, and he lights up the world? Tell him!”

Kurt shrugs and gives her her keys. “What doesn’t kill you,” he says, and then, “Karaoke this weekend?”

She nods and stares at him and then turns on her heel, muttering to herself in Spanish. Kurt watches her drive away and then turns back to the Mustang still up on the ramps. He runs his hands over her sides, tells her, “I need to be a scientist to fix you,” and doesn’t resent it at all.

Afterall, all the while he has the car, nothing is over.

*

Kitty Wilde thinks of herself as an uptown girl, and uptown is exactly where she’d rather be. Time after time, though, she’s pulled back to the diner and her cheap polyester uniform, the skirt too short and the top too tight for comfort. Tonight she’s working the graveyard shift, turning tables and chugging lukewarm coffee, and the two people headed for the entrance are the only exception to the monotonous night fever that’s settling in.

‘Smile,’ she tells herself, and stretches her mouth into what she hopes is the right expression just as the bell above the door jingles and two men slip inside.

They take a booth on the dark side of the diner, and for a long minute, they don’t speak.

“I want to hold your hand,” the one with the pale skin and the hair that’s defying gravity says eventually, and it’s like breaking a dam. The other places his hand palm up on the table, and their fingers curl together. “I won’t give up,” he continues, “I just can’t stop loving you.”

His companion’s cheeks turn ruddy, and there are tears in his eyes. “I want you back,” he says. “I’ll never fall in love again.”

They talk for hours, heads bent low, hands joined over the table and its cheap vinyl cloth. Kitty’s shift is drawing to a close when the dark haired man raises his eyes. “Here comes the sun,” he says.

“You’re the sunshine of my life,” replies the other. Kitty makes a face at the table she’s cleaning. Their hands separate slowly, as if they share both one hand and one heart, as if it hurts to part, and they head slowly for the exit. She watches them drive away in separate cars.

Vampires, she decides, for no reason at all.

*

Sam Evans isn’t in the habit of picking up strange women on the sides of roads, but there’s something about this one. Her bright red shoes make her legs look impossible, and the height of her hair even in the dusty summer heat is beguiling. She’s got her thumb out for a ride, and he draws up slowly beside her.

“You’re my lucky star,” she says, and pulls off her shades. Sam reaches across and throws open the door for her to climb up up up and in. She kicks off her shoes and puts her feet up on his dash. He’s a married man with a woman he adores, but his eyes follow the lines of her legs down to her ankles all the same. She wiggles her toes and grins at him.

“Where’re you going?” he asks, and she shrugs a delicate sun-kissed shoulder.

“Home,” she replies. “I’m in a New York state of mind.”

*

Later, with his wife sitting beside him on a vinyl bench at the all night diner, he tells Blaine, “I saw her standing there.”

Blaine nods, swallows. “It’s not right,” he says, “But it’s okay. It’s not unusual.”

Mercedes reaches out to touch the back of his hand, and he stares down at the bright red of her nails. “Let it go, boo,” she says softly, shaking her head. “She’s not there. What the world needs now is for you to hold on. Me and my man gotta be on our way. You’ve got one less bell to answer now, so why don’t you spend a little time with the man in the mirror, learn to express yourself, and figure out how to get your man.”

Blaine smiles and squares his shoulders, inhales and exhales, and watches as Mercedes shuffles herself out of the booth. “This is not the end,” she says, and her bracelets rattle as she gestures toward him, “Not while I’m around.”

Blaine - who has almost forgotten what it feels like to be hugged - finds himself enveloped in her arms. He can’t help hugging her back.

*

Rachel sends him a message from the road. ‘You let me love you,’ she says. ‘Until you learned to love yourself. No one is alone, and in no time at all you’ll be moving out. You were right. He’s not the boy next door. Call me maybe, piano man. You’ll always have a piece of my heart.’

He couldn’t respond if he had the words. There’s no return address.

*

In the darkness of the bar, once the lights are out and it’s just the two of them, Brittany rests her forehead against Santana’s temple and runs her fingers down her arm to tangle their hands together. “Isn’t she lovely,” Brittany murmurs, and Santana knows who she means. Rachel, so far away now, and so emotional.

“I think I want to marry you,” Santana breathes, leaning into her girl. “If I die young, I want to know I lived. I want people to know I was here.”

Brittany lifts her head and presses a kiss to Santana’s hair. “Yes,” she says, and punctuates it with another kiss. “Mine.”

She pulls two red solo cups from beneath the bar, and fills both with beer. “Raise your glass,” she says. “Here’s to us.”

They link arms and down the beer, and Santana laughs like she rarely does. “Here’s to us,” she agrees.

*

And, at the city limits, waiting for a red light to go green, Kurt breathes in the scent of leather and engine oil and the warm cedar of Blaine’s skin.

“At last,” he says softly, and Blaine’s hand sweeps over his body.

“It’s as if we never said goodbye,” he agrees.

And the Mustang plows into the night and the fire and the rain.


End file.
